


Certain Coasts Set Apart

by skoosiepants



Category: Bandom, Panic At The Disco
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-05-17
Updated: 2007-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-06 20:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skoosiepants/pseuds/skoosiepants
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Certain Coasts Set Apart

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a little weird about this fic. Let's be weird about it together. More thanks than I can properly express go to castoffstarter for the beta and encouragement.
> 
> [download the soundtrack](http://community.livejournal.com/muse_to_match/962.html)

_"Certain coasts," the remark of a perceptive writer came back to me, "are set apart for shipwreck." _\- Loren Eiseley, _The Unexpected Universe_

  


It was easier to get lost on the Virginian coast than Spencer thought it would be.

He'd felt a little stupid at first, retiring into hermitage status at the tender age of twenty-eight, but he'd had the money for it, and been pissed enough, and really just sick of every fucking thing in the entire world at the time - and now he just sort of liked the solitude.

The phone woke him up, the jarring rhythm of Wolf Parade signaling a call he couldn't ignore, no matter how much he might've wanted to, because Ryan was a tenacious fucker and it was early enough that he'd have time to call continuously for - he squinted at the pale light shading his open window - at least an hour.

He groped for his Sidekick on the bedside table and thumbed it on. "Ryan, it's ass o'clock," he said, burrowing back under his covers.

"Yes, it is. It is, Spencer, it's early, and today is the day of your birth, and I'm sending you a present. So get up."

Spencer sighed heavily. "I'm going back to sleep." He sat up, though, scrubbing a hand through his hair. It was getting long again, falling over his eyes.

"Oh, and dude, there's an email from Greg I forwarded you, so just. Look it over, will you? And let me know what you think about that song, the Semiconductor demo with theyou know, from _last month_, and what have you been doing, asshole"

Spencer would probably be better at the whole hermit thing if he didn't have Ryan, who was using him as some sort of manager, et al, whatever-person - which Greg-the-_actual_-manager was probably thrilled about, but, hey, it'd been years - and apparently it took distance and separation for Ryan to get talky, since although he respectfully kept the calls to Spencer at a minimum - once a week, max, except in emergencies or holidays - he hardly ever let Spencer get a word in, and if he happened to ping Spencer's voicemail, he'd run out the tape with weird, eerily Wentz-like messages.

Spencer thought maybe, _maybe_ Ryan was afraid of what Spencer would say if he ever let him say it.

Climbing out of bed, he yawned and scratched his belly, making appropriate noises as Ryan rambled. The bathroom light was harsh, and he winced at his reflection, palming his jaw. He was thirty-three. Thirty-three and old, with tiny almost-crows feet at the corner of his eyes - if he scrunched up his face enough - and he probably had skin cancer or something from five years on the beach, like Ryan always said he'd get, although Ryan was still a staunch supporter of big-eyed, bone-thin, fish-belly paleness.

The doorbell rang just as he was struggling one-handed into a pair of shorts, and he cut into Ryan's rant about whatever - neighborhood hoodlums or something, because sometime after he hit thirty Ryan turned into a surly old man who started sentences with 'kids these days' and 'when I was their age' completely without irony.

"Hang on," Spencer said, moving through the sparsely furnished den towards the front of his small cottage, "there's someone at the door," and Ryan said, "Okay, that's probably from me, so," and then he trailed off, suspiciously quiet and oddly tense.

Spencer arched a brow. "Really?" He gazed out his screen door, and then dropped his eye-line about three feet. "You sent me a kid?"

Ryan choked, like a strangled laugh, then went, "Um."

"Ryan."

"He wanted to," Ryan said in a rush. "It wasn't my idea, it totally wasn't, I swear."

"Ryan."

"Gotta go, Spence, bye," Ryan said, and hung up.

Spencer was still holding the Sidekick up to his ear, listening to dead air.

The little dark-haired boy on the other side of the screen shifted on his feet and said, "Hi."

Spencer swallowed hard. "Hi," he said back, then opened the door.

*

There was some sort of cosmic irony that Jon was the one who broke up the band. They announced it as a mutual decision, a hiatus, a 'we've been doing this for almost a decade, and it's time for a break' kind of thing, but basically it was Jon and Cassie and their little girl who'd been diagnosed with leukemia.

Spencer probably could've handled it if Brendon hadn't gone ahead and married a preschool teacher from Kansas City that he'd known for just over a month, and Spencer probably could've handled _that_ if he hadn't been completely and stupidly in love with him. Brendon had been wearing him down for years with his constant, boundless energy and huge smiles and big, affectionate hugs, and Spencer had been so very ready to give him _everything_hell, he'd already given Brendon practically all of himself by that point, hadn't he? And losing him so fast and fucking easy had sliced Spencer up inside.

It was half that, and half what Ryan referred to as his psychotic break - his best friend's daughter was dying, he went a little crazy in an FAO Schwartz, police were involved, it wasn't his finest moment - that drove Spencer to rent a house in the dunes just south of Chincoteague, and then it was the calm, for once, the complete fucking _calm_, that convinced him stay.

*

They had Froot Loops. Spencer boosted the kid_Jon_, Jon Thomas, to separate him from his honorary uncle, and Spencer had seen him once months after he'd been born, over four years before at Mae's funeral, so he _knew_ that, and Spencer hefted him up onto the tall chair at the kitchen island. He seemed sturdy enough for an almost five-year-old, so Spencer was pretty sure the height was okay. Jon Thomas folded his legs under him and leaned forward onto the counter and fisted his spoon and Spencer sat next to him, staring down into his Froot Loops and watching the milk spin into colors.

*

He pulled on a hoodie before trudging outside. Jon Thomas took off down the porch steps and across the grassy sand, shouting into the breeze, and it was funny to think he'd been on his best behavior inside the cottage, remembering all his please and thank-yous and sitting still in a way that Brendon had never been able to master.

He was down by the water's edge before Spencer even stepped onto the beach, bare toes curling into the still night-cool sand.

"So was he to butter me up?" Spencer asked, shoving his hands into the pockets of his cargo shorts.

Brendon was reading, sitting against an overturned rowboat, a picturesque wreck half buried in the dunes that Spencer hadn't thought to get rid of. He looked up from his book, dark glasses shading his eyes but a tentative smile curling his mouth. "Did it work?"

Spencer shrugged. His hair whipped in front of his face and he pushed it behind his ears, watching as Brendon struggled to his feet. He looked the same. A little more solid, maybe, but the same.

"Hi," Brendon said. He stepped towards Spencer, bouncing a little on his feet, and Spencer could still recognize Brendon's pre-hug shuffle, the little tell in his arms before he folded up his target into a surprisingly strong bear hug, and Spencer hastily stepped back.

He wasn't ready for that yet, he didn't think.

Brendon frowned, quick, so it was there and gone again, and he pressed his book up to his chest and pushed his sunglasses up onto the top of his head. Spencer could read the wary hope in his eyes, and a lump settled in the bottom of his stomach, because before, before everything, Spencer had always thought Brendon'd been so damn _open_, open in his affection and invitation. But there were some things about Brendon that Spencer didn't think he'd ever understand.

"Hi," Spencer said finally.

Brendon bit his lip, nodding. Then he said, "So. Happy birthday," and Spencer's throat tightened and his eyes prickled a little, even though he'd never admit it, and he nodded back, "Okay."

*

Spencer had never been around many kids besides Mae. He'd been around Brendon and Jon, and they were sort of like kids, but they'd never been so small and big-eyed and _dependent_, and Jon Thomas wanted to be carried everywhere he didn't feel like running.

"He can walk, you know," Brendon said, amusement plain as Spencer hefted Jon Thomas onto his back.

"I don't wanna walk," Jon Thomas said matter-of-factly, hooking his arms around Spencer's neck and nearly strangling him.

"He doesn't want to walk," Spencer said, and it felt _good_. It felt good to have this skinny-limbed boy humming in his ear, chin digging into his shoulder and fingers grasping at the collar of his t-shirt.

"We're staying in town," Brendon told him when they reached the porch.

Spencer let Jon Thomas slide to the ground, keeping a grip on his arms so he couldn't fall. "Do you want to" Spencer paused and Brendon looked hopeful, and he had a spare bedroom, but if he wasn't ready for hugs, he wasn't ready for that. "Dinner?" he asked instead.

"You can cook," Brendon said, not a question, and yeah. One important aspect of hermitage was self-sufficiency.

"I can cook. No meat," Spencer offered.

Brendon shifted on his feet, then bent down and grabbed Jon Thomas around his waist as he tried to streak past, back towards the beach, hefting him up into his arms. "But it's your birthday," he said. Jon Thomas wriggled until he was upside down, legs kicked out behind Brendon, dark hair a mess, smiling crookedly up at Spencer. "You shouldn't have to cook."

Spencer didn't point out that he would've been cooking for just himself anyway. He shrugged, rubbed the back of his neck. "So don't come."

"I didn'twait, Spencer." Brendon took a deep breath. "I didn't mean"

"So come," Spencer said, more confidently.

"Okay." Brendon nodded. "Okay, yes, we'll come."

*

Spencer opened up his laptop, sitting on his couch and leaning over his lacquered coffee table, like he did every morning, mug of coffee at his elbow. It didn't matter that Brendon was just miles away, tucking himself into the sleepy little bayside town. There was one inn; a garden drenched three storey Victorian, painted lemon yellow and facing the sea. There was a dock with an ice cream parlor and a shack that sold oysters and clams and whatever fish they pulled in that day. There was a shabby diner on Main Street. There wasn't much else.

In his inbox, there was a blank email from Jon, a pic of the new baby attached, propped up with her pudgy hands gripping a markered sign - Happy birthday, Uncle Spence! Jon called him on Sundays, usually, and let Lily babble into the phone, and for five days every summer Jon brought his girls out - Never with Mae, but afterafter with Cassie and their giant Great Pyrenees, Amber, and now with little Lily in tow - to track sand and slobber through his tiny house.

The worst was when Ryan showed up, too, armed with SPF 300 and his guitar, because it felt too perfect, and then it felt too wrong, and no one would say anything about Brendon.

Spencer downloaded the picture of Lily and printed it out, another piece to stick on his fridge, then went back to his email. There were two from Ryan. The forward from Greg he'd mentioned and another one with the subject line: Don't kill me.

Spencer clicked on it, figuring it'd either be an apology or an explanation, but instead it only read, _Talk to him, Spencer_, punctuated with an obnoxious smiley face.

Talk to him. Right.

The absolute worst thing, the part that hurt the most, was that Brendon had known.

Mae had been responding well to treatment, in the beginning, and Brendon'd been making shadow puppets for her on her bedroom wall, and he made these stupid faces and pitched funny voices for them and Spencer just kind of told him. He'd said it with his eyes first, silently, a space apart in front of the warm yellow flashlight, and then when they stumbled out into the hall after Mae had drifted off to sleep, he'd said the actual words, quick and breathy, hands gripping Brendon's upper arms.

Brendon had _known_. He'd let Spencer say it out loud, and he'd smiled with his whole entire body, like he'd just been fucking _waiting_ for Spencer to get a clue, and then everything had gone to shit within the space of a few days.

*

Somehow, Spencer was not exactly sure, he'd acquired two cats. A seal point, solid-boned Siamese mix with a white patch on his chest and three white-toed paws, and an orange tabby with half his tail missing and a scar arcing over his left eye. Spanky, the Siamese, was a dune kitten that'd followed him home three years before. Rover had shown up on his porch last spring, fully grown and heavy-set and surprisingly sweet-tempered.

Spanky and Rover slept sprawled together in sun-warmed nooks all over his cottage during the day, and then spent their nights outside hunting nightjars and ground squirrels and frogs. Spencer thought claiming ownership was pathetically middle-aged old-maid of him, but acceptable in a beach bum sort of way, so he fed them and tricked them into heading into the vet's once a year, and sometimes they curled up at the bottom of his bed or left headless field mice in his shoes.

They were both strangely tolerant of Jon Thomas - "Jay, we call him Jay, now," Brendon said, grinning fondly at the boy as he heaved Rover up into his arms. He staggered under the cat's weight, said, "Whoa, kitty," and Rover just flicked his stubby tail and looked mildly disgruntled.

Brendon's grin turned softer when he looked up at Spencer again. "So what's on the menu?" he asked.

"Pasta." Not the most elaborate meal, but Spencer'd had trouble focusing all afternoon, and it seemed like something a kid might eat.

"Cool." Brendon's eyes crinkled up at the edges.

Spencer swallowed, fingers biting white-knuckled into the worn wood frame of his screen door. "Come on in," he said. Jon_Jay_ had already sped past, chasing after Rover when he'd squirmed out of his arms. He waved Brendon in and moved towards the kitchen.

He was tense, stiff, and he really, really hoped Brendon wouldn't notice. It was stupid, because Brendon probably already knew, but he didn't want him to see how uncomfortable this all was for him. He didn't want Brendon to see how much his presence literally grated.

He wanted to know why Brendon was there.

*

Spaghetti was apparently a hit with Jay, but also a huge mess.

"I just. Stop wiggling, Jay." Brendon wrestled, actually _wrestled_ Jay to the ground, armed with a wet paper towel, the little boy laughing hysterically as Brendon fought to swipe red sauce off his face, fingers, arms, _hair_, even, and Spencer was a little in awe.

"Do you"

"Dad, dad, daddy, _daddy_," Jay chanted, giggling and pushing the towel away and shaking his head and seriously. Spencer had no idea how Brendon could handle it, but then, Brendon had never been much better.

Finally, Brendon sat back on his heels. "Ta dah," he said, brandishing the dirty paper towel and pointing a finger at Jay. "You, young man, are trouble."

"Uncle Spence," Jay said, making grabby hands at Spencer, and he'd said that earlier, he'd said it twice at dinner, and it hadn't stopped being sort of beyond painful yet. He pouted exactly like his dad when Spencer didn't move fast enough, he pouted with his whole face, brown eyes liquid, and Spencer had never, ever been able to resist that.

He rolled his eyes and tugged at Jay's arms, sliding him out from under Brendon and propping him on his feet.

"Uncle Spence, where's the cats?" he asked, scanning the room.

"Hiding from you." He poked his stomach. "Outside probably." Or more likely under the bed, but he thought they deserved a break from the mini-Urie.

Jay ran for the door and Brendon called out, "Shoes first," and, "Don't break your neck on the steps," and then he turned to Spencer, brow arched, and said, "Good going, now we have to follow him."

"_You_ have to follow him." Spencer gestured towards the kitchen. "I have to clean up."

"Better idea," Brendon said, giving him a slight push. "I'll clean up, you watch the midget."

"I"

"Come on, _please_?" Brendon low-balled him with some puppy-eyes.

Spencer huffed. "Fine. Soap's in the cabinet."

"Soap?" Brendon's face screwed up. "No dishwasher?"

"Wanna trade?"

"Ha, no. I've had him _all day_. Do you have any idea how boring that town is?"

Spencer felt himself bristle, blush hinting up his neck, but reined in his temper. They moved slower there, and Brendon always moved at a faster clip than anyone Spencer knew.

"It's okay," Spencer said, and Brendon visibly floundered a little, mouth opening and closing and eyes apologetic. He only shrugged, though, and went back towards the kitchen.

"Don't let him in the water, okay?" he tossed over his shoulder. "It's too cold."

*

Spencer sat with his bare feet buried in the sand, arms hooked around his knees as he watched Jay play. He'd dug out a few plastic buckets that he used to collect shells and Jay was busy packing them full of damp sand, just out of reach of the lapping foamy waves. He was talking to himself, a steady chatter snatched away by the slight breeze, and despite everything, Spencer smiled.

He was a cute kid. Smart, tiny-thin like he imagined Brendon would've been, with big expressive eyes and his father's mouth. Spencer had never met his mother, but from pictures he could see Jay had her small nose and the natural curl of her hair.

A shadow thrown from the dying sun fell across him, and then Brendon dropped down onto the sand with a groan. "You should seriously think about investing in a dishwasher."

"Okay," Spencer said dryly, slanting him a sideways glance.

Brendon nodded, combing a hand through his hair, letting it fall over his eyes.

"He's cute," Spencer said, gesturing towards Jay. It was the truth, obviously, but the words still felt forced.

If Brendon noticed, though, he didn't seem to care. "Thanks," he said, then Spencer started, "Why" just as Brendon said, "Spencer"

Brendon worried the hem of his shirt and half-grinned. "Go ahead," he said. "You first."

Spencer cleared his throat, gazed off towards Jay. He was digging a shallow hole with one of the buckets, the other upended precariously on the top of his head, slipping down over his eyes with every other movement. After a moment, Spencer asked quietly, "Why are you here, Brendon?"

"I." Brendon paused, then said, "This isn't the first time, you know."

Spencer turned back to Brendon. "What?"

Brendon waved a hand. "Here. I've been here before. I was just too much of a coward to do anything about it."

"How many"

"Twice." Brendon let out a dry chuckle. "With Jon last summer. And then right before Thanksgiving."

The Thanksgiving Spencer's sister finally coaxed him out of hiding. Spencer didn't ask if he'd tried the cottage and found it empty. "You came with Jon and Cassie?"

Brendon ducked his head. "In town. I didn't want to, like, intrude or anything," he said, which was almost laughable, because Brendon _always_ intruded.

"Oh," Spencer said.

"Yeah. Oh." Brendon's tone was self-depreciating, but Spencer didn't know what to say to change it.

Once the sky slid into twilight, Brendon whistled and waved Jay over, and Jay jumped up and ran for them, slip-sliding a little once he reached the soft, deeper sand near the dunes. He was breathless, wet and sandy and even Spencer could see he was exhausted.

"We better go," Brendon said, getting to his feet. "Say bye, Jay."

Spencer stood up and wiped the back of his shorts, and Jay threw himself against his legs.

"Bye, Uncle Spence," he said, head tipped back, grinning widely up at him.

Spencer ruffled his hair, then crouched down for a proper hug. He kissed his cheek, and skinny arms wound around his neck and Spencer lifted him off the ground a little, said, "Bye, Jay," against his temple.

*

Brendon had rented a sleek black SUV that made Spencer's own beat-up Explorer look even older than its five years. Jay clambered up into the back and into his child seat, hooking his own restraints together, and Brendon leaned in to tug them tight.

"So." Spencer gave Brendon a half-smile when he turned around, pushing the door closed behind him. "Thanks for coming."

Brendon nodded, bounced a little on his feet. "Thanks for. You know. Dinner."

"Sure." It was more than a little awkward, saying goodbye, and Spencer asked, "How long are you?" He gestured vaguely with his chin.

"Early tomorrow. Marla has"

"Right," Spencer cut in, because he didn't really want to hear about Marla. They might be okay, they might get better, but he wasn't sure he'd ever be ready to talk about Brendon's wife.

"Spencer"

"No, um." Spencer tried for a smile. "It's good. It was good. Seeing you," he clarified.

"Yeah, so." Brendon bounced again, and Spencer caught the intention, but Brendon was too fast and slid forward before Spencer could step away. He found himself wrapped up in Brendon, his arms around his torso and face mashed into his throat, and it was so familiar and so strange and so good and so horrible all at the same time.

"God, Spencer," Brendon murmured.

Spencer took a shaky breath. He lifted his arms and cautiously moved to hug Brendon back, awkward hands pressed flat against his spine.

Brendon said, "Please say this is okay," and Spencer didn't know what to say, really, so he didn't say anything at all.

*

The day after his birthday, Spencer stayed in bed. With Spanky curled up on his chest, Rover on the pillow by his head, he watched the Game Show Network and ate two entire bags of Double Stuff Oreos cookies.

The day after that, he was feeling pretty disgusting and light-headed from all the sugar, so he forced himself to get up and showered. He tugged on a t-shirt and an old pair of jeans and headed for the beach.

Down by the rock jetty, about a half mile from his house, small pools formed as the tide pulled out, and Spencer picked through the shallow water, tossing stranded starfish back into the sea, dropping bits of shells and sand-smooth stones into a bucket. Tiny multicolored clams burrowed deeper into the sand as he sifted through them, and he dug out crabs, just to see them scuttle back into their holes.

He never did anything with the shells he collected, but just the activity, the routine, always seemed to clear his mind, helped him think better - or sometimes not think at all. The monotony was soothing, and the salty wind, the brine scent so different from the hot, arid grit of the desert, kept him firmly grounded in the now.

When he wandered back towards his home hours later, bucket full and stomach grumbling for lunch, there was an unfamiliar sedan parked in front of the cottage. Jon was sitting on the porch steps, rolling a bottle of beer between his hands.

Spencer waved. "Hey."

Jon grinned, shook his head and got up to hug him, pressing the cold bottle against the small of his back. "Spencer," he said. "You smell good."

Spencer laughed. "Sand and salt air, same as always. What are you doing here?"

"Yeah, not the question to ask." He pulled back and arched an eyebrow at him. "What are _you_ doing here?"

"I live here."

Jon poked him in the chest. "Wrong answer, my friend."

*

Spencer pan-fried grilled cheese with bacon, because Jon normally couldn't have either, but Cassie wasn't there to stop them. They used light Pam instead of butter, though, and called it a compromise.

He sliced a tomato onto a plate and opened a bag of chips, and they sat next to each other on the top step of the porch, and Jon waited until Spencer's mouth was full of sandwich before he said, "You know Brendon's been divorced for over a year."

Spencer choked, grabbed for his ice tea and took a huge gulp. He swallowed, wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Um. No."

Jon nodded.

"Why didn't. Why didn't you say anything before?" Spencer asked, even though he knew it wasn't a fair question. That Brendon was off-limits as a conversation topic was an unspoken rule in Spencer's house.

"It wasn't." Jon paused and shrugged. "A year probably isn't all that long in terms of a marriage and kid," he said baldly. "And I always thought Brendon should be the one to tell you, anyway."

"But he didn't," Spencer pointed out.

"No, he didn't," Jon agreed. "Which is why I just did, and if you tell Cassie I said anything, I'll let Ryan know you're the one who threw out all his hobo gloves."

Spencer narrowed his eyes. "You play dirty."

"I play to win."

"Right." Spencer rubbed the side of his hand under his nose. Brendon was divorced. It didn't mean anything, really.

Jon sighed and set down his sandwich. "Brendon," he started, "was always a little selfish."

Spencer snorted. "Okay." That was nothing new. Brendon had always gotten what he wanted, eventually. Brendon had been a whiner and a pouter and he was always so adorable about it that no one ever really _minded_ giving him what he asked for. Selfish, maybe, but always delightfully pleased when presented with whatever he wanted most. Which was probably why Spencer had been so blindsided when he'd finally, _finally_ given in and then had his heart shoved right back in his face, battered and bruised from all the careless handling.

"Look, we all coped in different ways, okay?" Jon leaned his elbows on his thighs, clasped his hands together. "You assaulted a beloved anime character and got into a fist fight in the happiest toy store on earth, and Brendon. Brendon had some sort of mortality crisis, got married and had a baby."

Spencer picked at the knee-hole in his jeans with a thumb. "It's been too long, Jon," he said finally. He couldn't actually say that he'd moved on, because Jon wouldn't believe him. He lived at the _beach_. He lived at the beach with _two cats_.

Jon sighed. "He tried to make it work. Jay's a great kid and Marla's"

"Jon," Spencer cut in quietly.

"They _tried_, Spencer." Jon reached out and cupped Spencer's knee, squeezing it. "You can't fault him for trying. Now you have to decide if you want to try, too."

*

They stayed up late talking about everything and anything and nothing; Lily's first word - "do," which she apparently used interchangeably between Jon and the dog - and Ryan's strange but profitable recent online business union with Frank Iero, with the unlikely name of AndFrank.com, a subsidiary of Clandestine that specialized in band and concert t-shirts for dogs.

The next morning, Jon was gone when Spencer woke up. There was two-thirds a coffee pot still hot, and a sticky note on Spencer's laptop - an email address and a smiley face.

Spencer sighed. He poured himself a mug of coffee, snatched his Sidekick off the kitchen counter and went outside to call Ryan.

He half expected Ryan to not pick up, considering, but on the third ring Ryan answered with a slightly wary, "Spencer?"

"I'm not going to talk to you about it," Spencer said.

There was a pause. Then, "Okay."

Spencer leaned a hip against the porch railing. The sun was up, but the sky was overcast, meeting the ocean with a blurry, barely noticeable line of blue-gray. "Jon was here."

"When?" Ryan asked, but Spencer could tell he already knew. There was no way Jon and Ryan hadn't talked about it before hand.

So instead he said, "It's almost Mae's birthday."

"Two months," Ryan pointed out, but it wasn't a disagreement.

"I'm not making any promises." A lot could happen in two months. A lot could happen in two _days_, so no, he wasn't making any promises at all, but Mae's birthday was something he'd always selfishly taken for himself, and he thought it was about time he made some sort of effort.

Ryan inhaled sharply, said, "Spencer, that." He paused, laughed a little. "It would be great, Spencer, but you don't have to, you know that, right? It's never made. It's never been an issue with uswith Jon."

"I know," Spencer said, and he wanted to say a lot more, say that it'd always been an issue with _him_, and that Brendon wasn't the only one guilty of being a coward, but he just repeated, "I know," again, and then asked, "Can I stay with you?"

*

Ryan told Spencer he'd take care of everything, which was a relief. Spencer didn't want to have to think about it, not yet, but he owed Ryan a lot, so he opened up his laptop and the forward from Greg and the Semiconductor demo from last month and got to work.

The band was okay. The lead singer tended to scream a lot, which wasn't necessarily bad, but was probably hell on his throat. Lyrics aside, he liked the hook. He hated the beginning riff, but hooks were generally harder to fix, in his opinion, and there were probably better and worse songs in their repertoire somewhere - there always was.

He sent an email to Ryan - copying Jon and, after a minute of indecision, Brendon, too, carefully typing in the address Jon had left him - that said: _Stupid name, sloppy drumming, what's with all the thinly veiled man-whore references? Do you have anything else by them? _

By midmorning, there was a reply from Jon.

> From: Jon (dynomite@maeday)  
> To: spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org  
> CC: bden@urie.net  
> Subject: Re: Semi-lame pimp cane
> 
> Now I'm gonna have that part about the stylin' pimp in my head all day. also, I agree about the drumming. even my mad skillz would show him up.

By lunch, Brendon had written, and something caught in the back of Spencer's throat when he clicked it open.

> From: bden@urie.net  
> To: dynomite@maeday, spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org  
> Subject: Re: Semi-lame pimp cane
> 
> Stupid name? This from the guy who helped come up with The Summer League. Does anyone else think they used Casio's Calypso Rhythm II button for Jon's pimp hook?
> 
> From: Jon (dynomite@maeday)  
> To: bden@urie.net, spencersmith@rrr.org, ryanross@rrr.org  
> Subject: stick this in your velvet crotch
> 
> I hate you. Amber, who's had to listen to my singing for the past hour, hates you, too.

Spencer was tempted to volley an email back to them, risk narrowing down the parry to just him and Brendon, but he didn't. He got up; he made lunch, fed the cats, did some laundry, and checked his inbox just about every fifteen minutes like a giant girl. Some time in the late afternoon, Ryan finally wrote back.

> From: Ryan (ryanross@andfrank.com)  
> To: spencersmith@rrr.org, dynomite@maeday, bden@urie.net  
> Subject: you suck
> 
> I hate all of you more than can be properly expressed by email. The Summer League was cool.

There was an attachment. The file was labeled FuckYou.mp3, and Spencer thought maybe he was going to choke he laughed so hard, because, _Jesus Christ_, those guys couldn't write for shit, and Brendon had been dead on with the Casio.

He replied to all: _Please, please tell me you signed them, Ryan, because I want to hear this on the radio every day of my life. _

*

Spencer had a weekly therapist appointment by phone. He hadn't always had a therapist, but Ryan had pretty much given him an ultimatum three years ago. Either he talked to a professional, or Ryan would give Pete his address. Spencer still wasn't sure if it'd been an empty threat or not, but there was only so much of Pete Spencer could deal with, so he wisely chose the shrink.

He ended up not minding it so much. Dr. Epstein was generally helpful and let Spencer talk about all the things Ryan would never let him talk about, but she gave him stupid assignments, assignments that he forced himself to do no matter how much they made his skin itch.

There was progress, though. He could go into town now. He could stroll along the fishing dock and buy an ice cream cone and have a coherent conversation with Allie, the teenager who manned the counter in the summer.

Predictably, he was more comfortable in the winter, when the town grew sparse and tourists no longer filtered through the diner on Main Street. Every Tuesday he walked the two miles into town and sat at the counter - he'd graduated from a booth months ago - and worked his way through the surprisingly extensive laminated menu. Variety, Dr. Epstein told him, was the spice of life.

Spencer wasn't so sure that particular idiom applied to diner food, but since it'd taken a full three months of prodding from Epstein to get him to even sit in there long enough to finish a cup of coffee, he figured it didn't actually matter.

Deana, a tiny, plump frosted blonde, clicked the chipped Formica with a bright red nail, then upended a thick cream coffee mug and filled it to the brim. "We're still on O this week," she reminded him. Her tone was half poking-fun and half pure affection. Spencer was perfectly aware he was regarded as the town weirdo, but Deana was young enough to know who he was and obviously _didn't_ know who he was, so town weirdo was just fine with him.

"Is there another O besides omelet?" he asked.

"Oatmeal."

Spencer grimaced.

Deana laughed. "Oh, honey, I don't make the rules, I just enforce them."

It was comments like that one that made Spencer suspect Dr. Epstein had been making inappropriate calls around town, but Spencer was pretty sure Deana had just drawn her own conclusions.

"I don't think I'm ready for oatmeal," Spencer said, glancing at the menu. "I'm in a pancake sort of mood."

"Short stack it is," she said, then patted his hand before turning back towards the kitchen.

He lasted a half hour, which was shorter than usual, but a group of boisterous out-of-towners, probably the last of the season, stumbled in laughing, reeking of sunshine and alcohol and they were harmless, Spencer knew this, but the set of his shoulders instantly stiffened. He didn't do well with strangers.

He probably would've been okay, except a smiling young man hitched himself up on the stool next to Spencer's and he did a double-take and said, "Hey," eyes curious, and Spencer was just waiting, _waiting_ for the inevitable, _Aren't you that famous guy who traumatized hundreds of little kids five years ago by almost shoving that Cowboy Robot Karate Fun Team guy down an escalator? _ But instead he just said, "You look familiar."

Spencer forced a shrug. "Yeah, well." He shifted up, took out his wallet and slipped out enough to cover his lunch and a sizable tip. He tucked it under his half-eaten plate, stood up, and made himself meet the guy's eyes. "I'm not," he said, then took measured steps out the door.

*

Spencer liked being in control. He liked knowing where he was going, he liked having a plan, and he liked knowing that if the plan changed, if things _went wrong_, he could always fix them. He took care of things, and from the moment they met, Ryan's problems had been Spencer's problems, and then the band's problems had always been Spencer's, too, and all the guys were automatically grouped under that umbrella.

He couldn't fix Mae. In the end, he couldn't fix the band, he couldn't fix _himself_, and, really, at that point he hadn't wanted to.

It'd been too much shit all at once, and Spencer was strong, but not that strong, and Dr. Epstein had once gently pointed out that maybe he thought the guys had taken advantage of him. That maybe they took for granted the fact that Spencer would make everything better. And then she'd said that maybe Jon blamed Spencer for not doing anything about Mae, and Spencer had flipped the fuck out, because _no way_. No way would that ever be true, and there was no way Spencer could've done _anything_, and Spencer would never tell anyone ever that he sobbed like a fucking two-year-old after cursing Epstein out, because it wasn't his fault, it _wasn't_, and there wasn't any possible way he could've held them all together after that. He wasn't a fucking miracle worker.

*

Despite the no promises deal, Ryan emailed Spencer his flight itinerary before the end of September.

> From: Ryan (ryanross@rrr.org)  
> To: spencersmith@rrr.org  
> Subject: No excuses
> 
> You're flying in, but you can decide whether you want to go to the banquet when you get here, okay? You can hide out with the dogs if you want.

Spencer laughed, because he should've seen that coming. And it was okay, he was okay, and maybe he'd have some sort of panic attack once November rolled around, but for now he just replied: _Pushy bitch_, and cc'd Jon.

*

Now that Brendon had Spencer's email - had it officially from Spencer, at least, since he couldn't delude himself into thinking the guys hadn't given it to him sooner - he started cc'ing him on forwards, and no one liked forwards, really, except Spencer could guess Brendon's game. Get him so used to seeing his email address in his inbox that it wouldn't even faze Spencer when he received an actual _real_ email, and that's basically exactly what happened.

> From: bden@urie.net  
> To: spencersmith@rrr.org  
> Subject: Chicago?
> 
> Ryan said you might be coming to Mae Day?

Spencer hit reply without even thinking about it and wrote: _Ryan has a big mouth._

Of course, emailing was just the beginning, morphing into text messaging, which was weird, because Spencer hadn't really texted much in years - there was an immediacy to it that made Spencer uncomfortable. He thought maybe he could ignore them, Brendon's sharp, surprisingly quick-witted comments, but it was hard to break old habits, and one Tuesday afternoon he found himself texting back and forth rapidly with Brendon in the Main Street diner.

They were arguing about Jell-O flavors, and the complete normalcy of it poleaxed Spencer right in the middle of a sip of water. He choked back a spit-take, because was it supposed to be that easy? Was it all right, falling into old patterns, old routines with barely a hitch?

"All right, honey?" Deana asked, leaning against the counter in front of him, his plate of mushroom and tomato quiche in one hand.

Spencer nodded, coughed and took another sip of water. "Fine," he said, and Deana arched a slim, blonde eyebrow at him. "No, really, I'm fine."

She eyed him sharply for a minute, then set his lunch down and pushed his drink off to the side so she could rest an elbow on the Formica, chin cupped in her hand. "Listen, I'm going to be nosy here for a second, okay?"

"Deana, when are you _not_ nosy?" he joked, but Deana's face was serious, her mouth pursed, and her voice was low enough that the ancient jukebox kept her words strictly for Spencer alone.

"You don't smile, kid."

Spencer blinked at the endearment. Deana was barely older than him, if at all. "Okay."

She shook her head. "You don't _smile_. Your mouth does this pathetic little upwards tilt and, honey, I know you like me, but nothing I've ever said has put that light in your eyes, and whatever was in that message, well." She shrugged, straightened, and Spencer froze a little in place because she looked _this close_ to ruffling his hair. But she just tapped the counter and said, "Don't panic now, okay?" like she knew him, like she knew his brain was flashing: _you're happy? Something must be horribly wrong, or something's going to go horribly wrong at any second, so you better back the fuck up before you get hurt. _

Spencer swallowed thickly. "Right," he said, and then he asked in half-impulsive desperation, "What're you doing November 5th?"

*

Spencer had never minded flying, and Ryan had booked seats on a late-night flight, business class, the plane predictably half-empty, so Spencer could stretch out and try to relax. Deana was flipping idly through a magazine beside him, and her presence was surprisingly easing, like he had a tangible piece of his hard-won sanity with him, just in case things went to shit.

Ryan hadn't commented on her sudden inclusion, even though Spencer knew he was dying to know who she was.

Deana was just sort of bemused about the whole thing. Frankly, Spencer was stunned she'd actually agreed to go.

"So we're staying with your friend Ryan," she said without looking up, still paging through the _US Weekly_.

"He's got five million dogs."

She slanted him a grin. "I like dogs."

Spencer sank down lower in his seat. A pressure was building behind his eyes, and he pressed at his temples. "They're all better dressed than me."

"Honey, I find that sincerely hard to believe."

Spencer had eschewed his usual winter wear of ratty hoodies and fisherman sweaters for an old Fall Out Boy t-shirt. His jeans were conspicuously new and he'd pulled on his favorite pair of purple shoes by habit. He rubbed his palms on his thighs, self-conscious in a way he'd never really been.

Deana reached over and squeezed his hand. "Chicago can't be all that scary," she said, and Spencer muttered, "You have no idea."

*

Ryan actually only had three dogs. Three Boston Terriers that looked exactly alike and Ryan dressed them in shirts proclaiming their names for his trip into O'Hare - Deputy Steve, Carlos and Tramp - because Ryan was anal and hated it when Spencer called any of them by the wrong name. They were identical and they were _dogs_, but whatever.

Spencer got stuck in the back with Carlos and Tramp, and Deana fell instantly in love with Deputy Steve, cuddling him onto her lap in the passenger seat, and Ryan fell instantly in love with Deana for babying one of his beloved dogs, and Spencer was pretty sure he was going to go out of his mind before the three days were over.

He already missed his quiet cottage. He missed the damned cats.

Ryan caught his eyes in the rearview mirror. "We're going straight to Jon's, if that's okay."

"I'm not"

"Just us, just dinner," Ryan hastily cut in.

Spencer sighed. "Okay." Tramp scrambled into his lap and licked his chin and then started panting in his face, sucking up all his fresh air, and Spencer scratched behind his ears.

*

It was pure panic-inducing chaos, and Spencer was going to kill Ryan. Kill him _dead_.

"Hiding?"

Spencer was folded up in the grass behind the shed, huddled into one of Jon's hoodies, and he was most definitely hiding. He didn't even bother answering Frank, just sent him a steady glare.

'Just us' turned out to be small army of aging scenesters that had flown in for the charity banquet and free concert, and Spencer hadn't been prepared, hadn't been prepared _at all_, and what he didn't need was another public breakdown on his record. He pulled his knees up to his chest and tried his best to send Frank leave-me-the-fuck-alone vibes.

Frank sat down next to him. He fumbled in his pockets, lit a cigarette, and then asked, "You mind?"

"Yes," Spencer said, but Frank ignored him, and after a few minutes where Frank was blessedly quiet, Spencer finally relaxed. And that's when Frank pounced.

"So what's the deal, Smith? There's no stranger danger here."

Spencer shrugged tightly. He figured it was simply a matter of not being used to so many people at once, whether he knew them or not. He'd forgotten how to interact with them, with everyone, and it was just a lot to take in.

"Needed a breather," Spencer finally said when it became clear that Frank was waiting for a verbal response.

Frank arched an eyebrow. "For an hour."

Huh. Spencer was honestly surprised by that. He didn't think he'd been out there that long. He gripped his knees and exhaled slowly, the cold condensing his breath into smoke nearly as thick as Frank's. He heard the sliding glass door open and close, and then a pack of dogs streaked noisily past them, Ryan's three and Amber and Frank's motley crew of disreputable looking mutts.

Pinching the end of his cigarette, Frank got to his feet and stretched a hand out to Spencer. "Come on," he said. "Gerard's sad he hasn't hugged you yet."

A laugh slipped out, and Spencer took the offered help to stand after only a slight hesitation. He felt better. A little wobbly still, but Frank didn't let go of him as they started back towards the house.

*

"Your friends are great," Deana said, taking her teacup to the sink, "but exhausting."

Spencer snorted. That was kind of an understatement. He was just grateful Brendon hadn't shown up.

She smiled at him. "You're far more interesting than I thought, honey," she said, "and I actually always thought you were really interesting."

"He's reclusive and likes cats," Ryan said, trying to garner all her attention in the most obvious way possible, since she loved his dogs and anyone who loved his dogs was automatically put on The List - and don't even get Spencer started on The List, because Spencer's _mom_ was on The List and there was no way she was a candidate for Ryan's grand married-by-forty plan, no matter how good her cookies were. The List was possibly the stupidest thing Ryan had ever come up with.

Deana laughed, shook her head, then said, "Seriously, I'm wiped," and Ryan took the hint, eagerly ushering her out of the kitchen towards one of the guest rooms after Spencer told her goodnight.

Then Spencer just sat and stared at his hands, feeling the tension he'd been shouldering all night slowly start to melt away.

Fifteen minutes later, Ryan wandered back in looking a little dazed.

"She called me kiddo and kissed my cheek," Ryan said, and Spencer gave him a tired smile. "I think I'm _older_ than her," he went on, incredulous.

"You're older than everyone," Spencer pointed out, because Ryan asked for grocery store gift certificates for his birthday and slept on a prescription mattress. One memorable summer, he even showed up at the cottage with a wooden cane and an alleged stubbed toe. The cane lasted only as long as Jon's restraint, though, because that shit was just hilarious, and sometimes Ryan had trouble taking a joke.

"Funny." Ryan rolled his eyes.

Spencer scrubbed a hand over his face and sighed. "I should kill you, you know."

"No, honestly, Spence," Ryan hopped up on the stool next to him, "I didn't know everyone would show up like that."

Spencer eyed him in disbelief. "It's Jon's house, it's Mae Day weekend, and you _didn't_ think there'd be a party?"

Ryan grimaced. "Well, you know, maybe. But you _agreed_ to go."

"Whatever, Ryan, it doesn't matter. It's fine." Spencer pushed back the stool and got to his feet. He hadn't had _fun_, exactly, but he felt accomplished. He felt like it was something he could do again, maybe, which was really, really good.

"Really?" Ryan asked warily.

"It's fine, I'm fine." He leaned into him from behind, wrapping his arms over Ryan's skinny chest and dropping his forehead onto the back of Ryan's neck. He smelled a little bit like cinnamon.

Ryan laced his fingers into Spencer's and tugged, spinning the stool around until they could hug properly, Spencer slipping in between Ryan's spread knees. "I miss you all the time, you know," Ryan said, voice muffled, face buried in Spencer's throat.

Spencer's arms tightened around him. "Yeah, me too."

*

"What're you doing?" Ryan asked Spencer, squishing onto the loveseat next to him and Deputy Steve, who was sprawled boneless across Spencer's lap, snoring.

"Texting Brendon."

"Oh."

Spencer glanced over, nose wrinkled. "Oh, what?"

Ryan shrugged, a sly little grin on his face. "Nothing."

Spencer's knuckles went white around the Sidekick. "Whatever." Brendon had asked him what he was going to wear that night, and Spencer was being a total girl about it and trying not to think about _actually_ going, because he was starting to feel a little bit suffocated. It was a huge event and there was going to be massive amounts of publicity and he had to concentrate on the part where it was not about _him_. It was about the Mae Walker Foundation and it was about juvenile illnesses and no one was going to ask him about his mental breakdown.

"Hey, hey." Ryan nudged his shoulder. "You all right?"

"Yeah, just." Spencer took a deep breath. "It's a little overwhelming."

"You don't have to go. I mean it," he added when Spencer opened his mouth to retort that _of course_ he did, because he'd made it that far and he wasn't going to back down at the last minute. "Spencer, just you being here means so much, and, like I said, Jon doesn't"

"I'm going," Spencer cut in, more sure than he was even just a minute before. Every year, all the guys dropped everything for Mae Day. They attended the two-fifty a plate banquet, mingled with politicians and actors and fellow rock stars, and then the next night they performed an awesome, weirdly incestuous free concert for the general public, an amalgam of all the bands they used to be and all they bands they currently were, and all the bands they might possibly be in the future.

And, God, Spencer wanted to _drum_. He suddenly, achingly wanted to get up on stage behind any fucking drum kit they could give him and _play_, and he hadn't felt that burn in years.

*

At the banquet, Jon thanked everyone for coming, but he grinned right at Spencer, and instead of making him feel guilty for all the missed years, it just made him feel _good_.

Deana was making oh-my-god noises over the salmon pate and Gerard, on Spencer's left, slid a hand down his thigh and squeezed his knee.

Spencer started, sent him a narrowed look. "Are you groping me, Way?"

Gerard grinned, boyish as always. "I'm being comforting, Spencer Smith," he said.

"Comforting, right," Spencer said wryly, and Gerard laughed and let him go with one final pat on his leg.

"Relax," he said, and Gerard had always had this strange sort of power over him, like all his positive emotions were infectious, and Spencer found himself grinning a little looser back.

It wasn't until after dinner, when everyone started leaving their seats and the brass band got louder, that Spencer started feeling slightly panicky. Ryan pulled Deana out on the dance floor and Gerard and Frank disappeared for a smoke and William was sitting across from Spencer at the round table, _staring_ at him, and his breath shortened.

William always had the exact opposite affect as Gerard on Spencer, and all his muscles clenched up, and his heart started pounding, and William frowned, leaned forward and said, "Hey, Spencer, are you_breathe_, man," and Spencer's vision actually started to blur.

He felt hands on his shoulders, someone pulling him to his feet, and then Jon's face was in front of his, concerned, his hands shackling his upper arms. "Spence, take a sec, okay? You're fine."

"Fine," Spencer echoed woodenly, and yeah, that actually helped. He took a deep, stuttering breath and stared into Jon's worried, big, awesomely kind eyes and he was fine. Shaky, a little nauseous, but okay. "William" he started, and Jon laughed.

"Oh, dude, yeah. Bill's a scary guy, totally."

"Hey." William popped up behind him. "I'm not scary, I'm _intense_."

"Whatever," Jon tossed over his shoulder, still grinning, "just leave Spencer alone."

"Spencer's all _fragile_ now," William said, rolling his eyes, but it wasn't mean-spirited and his openness was sort of refreshing. He pressed a messy kiss onto Spencer's forehead before slipping past him and out onto the dance floor, and Spencer relaxed even more.

Jon was still holding onto him. "Okay?" he asked.

Spencer nodded. "Yeah. I think maybe I've had enough, though."

"I'll get Ryan," Jon offered and Spencer said, "Wait, no, he's having fun and so is Deana, so. I'll just"

"Need a ride?" Brendon was bouncing in place, just behind Jon and off to the side, grinning widely.

Already off balance, Spencer made an embarrassing little squeaky sound, because he hadn't seen Brendon yet all night and he just appeared out of _nowhere_, and it wasn't exactly a surprise to see him, except he looked dorkishly handsome in his brown suit.

"You're late, and now you want to leave?" Jon asked.

Brendon held up his hands. "Hey, the kid takes _precedence_, Jon Walker, and you don't really want Spencer to take a cab, do you?" He pouted a little, fluttering his lashes, and Spencer bit his lip to stifle a smile.

*

The car ride back to Ryan's wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but Brendon was being unnervingly quiet, and Spencer was great with silence, he'd practiced and perfected it, even, but Brendon never had nothing to say.

Brendon fiddled with the radio and bobbed his head and finally, when he pulled into Ryan's driveway, he said, "We're doing Panic tomorrow."

"Uh."

He parked at the top of the circular drive, gripped the steering wheel with tight fingers and cocked his head at Spencer. "We're, um, doing Panic. Andy said he'd drum, but"

"No, I"

"if you wantedno, I know." Brendon nodded, smile rueful. "It's okay, I just thought"

"Maybe." Spencer's skin felt tight, hot, and it'd been so long, he wasn't sure if it was from anxiety or anticipation.

Brendon beamed at him. "Maybe?"

"Yeah, just." He wanted to. He really, honest-to-god wanted to, because they never did Panic. "I'll see."

Brendon looked ready to bounce out of his skin in happiness. "Good, good," he said, and Spencer asked, "Do you want to come in?" before he could stop himself, and Brendon said, "Yes," so fast Spencer didn't have any time to take it back.

He wasn't so sure he even would have, anyway.

*

When Ryan and Deana stumbled in after two a.m., Brendon was passed out on the floor, and Spencer was staring at a pair of drumsticks gripped in his fingers.

Ryan paused in the doorway, dogs huffing at his feet, butts waggling for attention. "Oh, hey, you found them."

Spencer arched an eyebrow at him. "I thought I told you to get rid of it all." Brendon had shown him the backroom in the basement, a tiny, conspiratorial grin on his lips, packed with all of Spencer's old equipment.

"You're a drummer?" Deana asked curiously, stepping into the den, and Ryan laughed.

"Dude, she has no idea who you are."

Deana furrowed her brow. "Should I?"

"Oh my god, you have no idea who I am, either," Ryan said, grinning almost manically. He grabbed hold of her hand and placed it over his heart. "That is the coolest thing ever, okay. Deana, will you marry me?"

Deana shook him off. "Ryan, please," she said, rolling her eyes.

"You can't not know who _I_ am," Brendon said, yawning wide and propping himself up on his elbows. He grinned sleepily, eyes soft.

Deana just gave him a blank stare. "Have I even met you?" she asked, and Spencer chuckled a little at Brendon's hurt pout, automatically tapping out a rhythm on his thighs.

He hadn't played in so long, and he was rusty as hell, and if he got up on stage the next day he was sure he was going to suck so hard, but it was a little like riding a bike. He hands still knew what to do, his fingers and arms; the beat was still in his head.

"Who's up tomorrow?" he asked, and Ryan shrugged.

"Everyone. Patrick wrote this orchestral opus or something and sent it to Gerard and Ray, so. It'll be pretty fucking amazing."

"Amazing, right." It was always fantastic and amazing. Spencer felt his throat close up a little.

With a sigh, Ryan sank down next to him on the couch and curled up into his side. "Spencer, Spencer, Spencer," he murmured, head on Spencer's shoulder. "What're we going to do with you?"

Brendon sat up and scooted closer until he could rest his cheek on Spencer's knee, and Spencer half wanted to pull away from both of them, wanted to curl up in a corner and press his eyes closed and _breathe_. There was a soft hand on top of his head, and he tilted back a little, watching Deana's soft smile upside-down.

"This is good, hon," she said, combing fingers lightly through his hair.

It wasn't that easy, though, it _couldn't_ be, and he said, "Wait, I can't" and pushed off the couch, stalking across the room. He clenched his hands into fists around the drumsticks and stared at Brendon and Ryan, at Deana, who he really didn't know _at all_, honestly, and they were all looking at him like he was going to explode or go crazy again or maybe just break down and cry.

One of the dogs ambled over and sniffed his feet and then plopped his butt down, leaning against his leg, and Christ, the fucking cats hadn't touched him this much, and it was just. He had to get out of there.

*

Ryan's neighborhood was really fucking confusing, and Spencer was pretty sure he was lost, so he just sat down on the curb and figured they'd send someone out after him eventually.

Jon pulled up about twenty minutes later. He rolled down his window and said, "It's too cold out there for a pretty little girl like you," and Spencer flipped him off, but he cracked an involuntary smile as he climbed into the car.

"How'd you get roped into this?"

"Brendon and Ryan were both sure you'd kill and eat them," Jon said, grinning.

Spencer slumped down in the passenger seat. His head hurt and his eyes itched. "I'm exhausted, Jon Walker."

"Well, it's almost four in the morning," Jon pointed out.

That was a simple enough explanation. "Jon"

"You think too much, Spencer," Jon cut in softly. He reached over and squeezed Spencer's arm, briefly, then pulled away from the curb.

Spencer sighed. He thought maybe sometimes he didn't think enough.

*

The last time Spencer ever drummed for Panic was not the last time Spencer ever drummed. The last time was for Mae. Mae, who'd reached age six with Jon's ear for music and a kid's enthusiasm for making as much noise as possible. Skinny, little Mae who pretty much had fucking hearts in her eyes whenever she'd looked at him.

She'd had a mini drum kit and she'd been really sort of terrible at it, from a drummer's perspective, and sort of indescribably awesome at it for a six-year-old, and Spencer had been so damn proud of her.

He'd thought it wasn't worth it, afterwards. He'd forgotten what it was like to just play for himself.

*

Spencer walked into the kitchen the next morning to find Ryan at the table in black socks, pink boxers and a wifebeater, reading _Star_ magazine, and Deana in a sleeveless tent of a nightgown, red checkered apron tied around her waist, making about fifteen hundred pancakes. If Deana ever took Ryan up on that offer of marriage they'd seriously be the oldest young couple ever.

Deana flashed a spatula at him and asked, "How many?"

Spencer blinked. "Um. Three." He wasn't all that hungry, but he figured he owed her for sort of freaking out the night before. Also, he wasn't sure who else she thought was going to eat them all, because Ryan certainly wasn't going to. Ryan mixed Metamucil into his morning pomegranate juice and snacked on saltine crackers. Ryan drank whole milk only because he wanted to stave off brittle bones. Pancakes were, like, a temptation from the devil that wanted to make Ryan fat.

"So," Spencer drew out, sitting down opposite Ryan, "I think I'm gonna play tonight."

Ryan peeked at him over the top of his magazine. "Seriously?" His eyes were smiling.

Spencer shrugged. "I should. Practice, maybe," he said, and Ryan dropped the mag, hands flat on the table as he pushed to his feet and said, "Yes, dude, basement, now," and Spencer laughed a little.

"Nutritional breakfast first," Deana said, sliding a plate in front of Spencer and an equally full one in front of Ryan. There was a crispy pile of bacon, even.

Ryan eyed it like maybe it'd bite and poison him with syrupy goodness. "What's your definition of nutrition?" he asked.

"Food."

"Okay, right. No. I don't even think I can digest this, so"

"Eat it."

Ryan scowled but dropped back into his chair and crunched into a piece of bacon. "You are no longer on The List, Deana Wozniak," he grumbled. "Deputy Steve has steered me wrong."

"Deputy Steve is a dog," Spencer said, taking a sip of coffee.

"Deputy Steve has _bad taste_," Ryan countered emphatically, and Spencer was sure that wasn't the point he was trying to contest, but whatever. Ryan was weird.

"I'm thinking quesadillas for lunch," Deana said, grinning. "Sour cream and guacamole. Jack and cheddar."

"Hips and thighs," Ryan muttered under his breath, but he cut up his pancakes into triangles and made a little reservoir of maple syrup to dip them in, and Spencer was sure Ryan secretly loved every bite.

*

It wasn't until they were set up in the corner of Ryan's basement, Ryan bent over his guitar and Spencer sitting behind one of his old kits, tapping lightly on the rim of a snare, that Ryan said, "So Brendon thinks you're mad at him."

"I'm not."

Ryan nodded. He pushed his hair back and looked over at him with sharp eyes. "Okay, good."

Spencer nodded back, swallowed. "Tonight, uh. What were you?"

"Brendon wanted to do something off of Seize," Ryan offered. He strummed a C chord, wrinkled his nose at the twang. "A couple off Fever, maybe, and _There Is Only So Much Subtlety_."

Spencer hummed a little, shook out his arms and kick-started into _Subtlety_, which wasn't subtle at all. Fast and heavy and loud and it had always been one of their favorites to perform live. Muscle memory was a beautiful thing.

Ryan gave him a brilliant smile.

*

Spencer wasn't nervous, really. He was more terrified than anything else, and he was hiding in what looked like a janitorial closet, and he was kind of hoping no one would bother looking for him.

He could hear the crowd through the walls. He could hear Fall Out Boy; he could hear Brendon's voice mingling with Patrick's on an old Blink cover. Before that he could hear William and Gabe and Travis and their side project Lingo, and in the beginning there was just Jon and Ryan and a guitar, and sooner rather than later Spencer was going to have to get out of the closet and do something productive. Like get the fuck out of town.

His Sidekick buzzed. He pulled it out of his pocket, the LCD screen lighting up with a text from Ryan: _where r u? _

Spencer ignored it and pressed the heel of his palm into his eye socket and concentrated on not throwing up. Throwing up would be bad.

After five more increasingly pissy messages from Ryan, though, he finally texted back his closeted location and told him to bring water or something, because he was sweating so much he thought maybe he'd pass out. It was fucking _hot_ in there, poorly ventilated and oozing disinfectant fumes, and probably not the smartest place to hide for hours on end.

Ten minutes and the door swung open, and Spencer blinked at the sudden spill of harsh light. Ryan stepped in and slid to the floor beside Spencer, handing him a bottle of water.

"Dude, it stinks in here," Ryan said.

"Yes."

Ryan nudged Spencer's foot with his. "So what's going on?"

"Nothing," Spencer said carefully. He twisted off the bottle cap and took a sip.

"Okay. You're gonna miss Patrick and Brendon dueling pianos, though. Brendon's got this whole," he waved a hand, "strategy this year. Thinks he can beat Patrick with a Tchaikovsky interlude."

Spencer sniffed, rolling the cool plastic between his palms, and said, "Well, that won't work." Brendon _always_ lost to Patrick at dueling pianos. Patrick pulled out weird, obscure shit, and Tchaikovsky wasn't going to faze him.

"They've never gone classical before. It could trip him up."

Spencer eyed him skeptically. "Right. This is Patrick."

"Yeah, but you haven't heard Brendon for a while. He's been, like, manically practicing for this," Ryan said.

"Last year he fumbled _Flash Gordon_," Spencer pointed out. He might not have ever been there in person, but Jon always burned him a DVD of the concert, and the genius of the dueling pianos bit was second only to whatever grandiose performance My Chem came up with.

Ryan's eyes were wide. "Who expects _Flash Gordon_?"

"Which is probably the point," Spencer said, but he was grinning, and he felt better. The water helped.

Ryan knocked his shoulder. "We still have Andy," he said lightly. "Andy's awesome and all, but he's no Spencer Smith."

Spencer ducked his head, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'm playing," he said. He'd be fine, it was no problem, he just had to freak out a little, and now he was totally and completely cool about it all. "I'm ready."

Ryan nodded. "Good."

*

They went on before My Chemical Romance and right after Wheeler and Ritter's acoustic tribute to Journey, and Spencer flew through their entire set, four songs, on pure adrenaline. They started and finished between one breath and the next, and Spencer didn't have time for anything but the beat, and it was probably the best feeling in the world. He'd forgotten how much he'd loved that.

When they walked off stage, Jon dropped an arm across his shoulders and gave him a smacking kiss on his temple, and Ryan shackled the back of his neck with a hand and said, "Dude," in that certain way that meant he was proud and happy and smug all at once.

Spencer laughed. He thought maybe this was something he could do again.

"Hey," Brendon said, grinning. "_Awesome_, man. Can I?" He tugged on Spencer's fingers and Jon let him go with a playful slap on his back, and Brendon pulled Spencer along until they rounded a corner and everyone else disappeared. "You were." He flailed a hand.

"Awesome?"

"Yes. Yes, _exactly_, dude. I can't believe"

Spencer rubbed the side of his face, sweaty, pushed his hair back off his forehead. He was pleased. He felt a little embarrassed, too, but he'd seriously _rocked_.

"Spencer, Spencer, hey, just let me." Brendon bounced into his space before Spencer could do anything about it, grinning widely, but instead of wrapping his arms around him, instead of pulling him into a back-cracking hug, he pressed his palms against his cheeks. He caged Spencer's face with his hands, fingers tangled in the sweat-damp strands of hair falling over his ears, and then he was kissing him. He was opening his mouth over Spencer's, lips wet and the tip of his tongue stroking flat along the seam, and Spencer had a single melting moment of _please god yes_ before he jerked back, barely refraining from punching Brendon in the head.

"Brendon, what the fuck?" he bit out, jaw clenched, because _what the fuck? _

"Look, I'm sorry, I just"

"You don't." Spencer took a shaky step backwards. "You don't get to just _take this_, okay? Five fucking years, Brendon, and I'm"

"No, I'm not. I don't want." He grabbed Spencer's wrist. "Spencer, no, that's not what I meant. I meantme. I'm _giving_ you" He bit his lower lip, cheeks still flushed from the performance and eyes kind of frantically wild. "You do whatever you want, okay?" he finally said, voice incongruently soft. "I just wanted you to know. That you have me. If you wantwhatever. You have me."

*

Spencer curled into a corner at the after party. He was sitting with Patrick, who was perched on the edge of his stool with his hands on his knees, telling Pete stories, and Spencer was _laughing_, because Pete was a crazy motherfucker and Pete stories never got old.

Peripherally, he could see Jon at the bar, and Spencer was pretty sure he was keeping an eye on him. Ryan was probably close by, too, because he'd had panic attacks in less crowded places, and it was kind of nice, to know the guys were there for him.

He knew exactly where Brendon was, of course, because Brendon hadn't left his side all night, and was fidgeting at Spencer's elbow, and it was clear he wasn't going to leave Spencer alone unless he flat out told him to. Spencer wasn't going to tell him to.

And then at one point, when Pete had bounced over and Patrick had angled himself towards him and the moment was sort of intimate in the way that Pete was always intimate in public - like he was half doing it for show, but like he was mainly doing it because it was _Patrick_ \- Brendon rubbed the top of Spencer's shoulder.

Spencer looked at him. Spencer called up his best blank stare and _looked_ at him, and Brendon dipped his head down close to his ear and picked the worst possible time to whisper, "I'm sorry."

Spencer almost brushed it off with a _for what?_ but he wasn't sure Brendon deserved that, for all that had happened, and he was doubly sure that _he_ didn't deserve that, to make light of something that had so completely devastated him. So he nodded, slow, and Brendon's eyes were dark and serious, and it could've been a trick of the dim bar lighting, but Spencer didn't think so.

Brendon said, "I don't actually have an explanation for anything," and his fingers bit into Spencer's thin shirt, clenching. "I'm just. Sorry. About you and me," he clarified. "I'm not sorry about Jay."

Spencer swallowed thickly. He could kind of understand that, but he didn't know if that would make anything better.

*

They left the bar fairly early, because Ryan was an old man and Jon and Cassie were anxious to check on Lily, and Spencer wasn't entirely sure he could've handled more than an hour or so, anyway. He was still buzzing with energy, yeah, and a little off-kilter, but he thought maybe he'd crash sooner than later, and he'd rather it not be in a room stuffed with old friends, acquaintances and the entertainment press.

Brendon had flown in from Las Vegas and was staying with Jon, but he climbed into the back of Ryan's car and no one said a word. Jon sort of raised his eyebrows, and Ryan sent Spencer a single worried glance, but Brendon just crossed his arms over his chest and dared anyone to tell him to get out.

Spencer got in next to him and shut the door.

Deana wasn't brimming with overenthusiastic praise, which was nice. She was quietly pleased and called Brendon sweet pea and told him he had a pretty voice, but "not as pretty as the little blonde boy with all the hats."

"Seriously," Ryan said through honest-to-god giggles, "please move here and live with me all my days. I don't care how many pancakes you make me eat."

Brendon gasped. "Ryan Ross, you ate _pancakes_?"

Spencer stifled a laugh, but Brendon turned towards him and grinned, streetlights shading his eyes and outlining his mouth, and Spencer shook his head, biting his lip, but he couldn't stop smiling.

Brendon shifted closer, tentatively. And then he shifted closer again, walking his fingers over the leather seat so unsteathily that Spencer didn't have the heart to pull away. Brendon was pushing, but that was pretty much what Brendon _did_, and the familiarity of it wasn't half as alarming as maybe it should have been.

*

The greeting Spencer got from the cats when he returned home was oddly gratifying. Spanky wailed off and on for a full hour from the back of the couch, sharp blue eyes following him around the room, as if Spencer would just up and disappear again at any moment, and Rover permanently attached himself to Spencer's heels for half a day, tripping him up every time he turned around. Once night fell, though, they both kind of forgot Spencer had been gone for three days and faded into the dunes without a backwards glance.

Spencer wrapped himself up in a beach blanket and settled down on the old glider on the porch, listening to the distant, tumbling spray of waves. He rubbed his sock feet on the sandy, rough boards, the white paint cracked and almost peeled completely away in places. It felt good to be home.

The silence was a little hollow, though, and he found himself humming an old song under his breath.

*

Brendon was a persistent fucker. Always had been, of course, and for the first time, maybe, Spencer allowed himself to think about how completely fucked up their relationship had been the past half decade for him to actually leave Spencer alone.

Brendon no longer left Spencer alone. Brendon texted him and emailed him and. He was just _there_. All the time.

Spencer guessed that might have been his point.

Whatever the case, though, Spencer resolved to let things slide for a while, giving Brendon the barest amount of encouraging response, but then he got the weirdest thing ever in the mail and the first person he thought to call was Brendon, his fingers automatically dialing the number

"Spencer?"

Spencer took a deep breath, stared at the invitation in his hands, and asked, "Has Ryan completely lost his mind?"

"You were the only one who ever thought he was normal," Brendon said.

Spencer could hear the cheeky grin in his voice and he snorted. Ryan painted his face and dressed like an Oliver Twist reject. Spencer never thought he was normal, but normal for _Ryan_, okay, yeah. "Did you get it?"

"Yeah, yes. We think it's a ploy."

"We?"

"Jon. And me. And Cassie, except Cassie said to keep her out of it," Brendon said. He paused, then went, "She's Pete's."

"You're fucking kidding me," Spencer deadpanned, because that was even _worse_. Ryan might have been a little misguided, but Pete

"He's convinced it's gonna be, like, the event of the year."

"It's a motherfucking _dog wedding_," Spencer hissed, pressing his fingers to his temple, and _oh my god_, he really couldn't believe these people were his friends. That once upon a time he spent a goodly portion of his year with them, day in and day out.

"It's"

"Whatever, oh my god, I'm calling Ryan," Spencer said and hung up. Brendon would forgive him.

Ryan answered on the first ring, and Spencer said, "The parents of Miss Ella Prudence cordially invite you to witness the marriage of their daughter to Mr. _Deputy Steve_"

"Hi, Spencer."

"Ryan. Please tell me this is a joke."

"Nope. Pete says it'll be good for the company, and it's time Deputy Steve settled down"

"Ryan." Spencer was not going to freak out. "Ryan, Deputy Steve is a _terrier_. Deputy Steve does not need to get married."

"We're going to make it into a calendar. It'll be the opening salvo of our new line of formal pup wear," Ryan said cheerfully, which, okay, made sense in the kind of way that band t-shirts for dogs made sense.

Spencer pinched the bridge of his nose. "Ryan, this is so stupid"

"Okay, Spence, you're. You need to take a step back, okay?" Ryan's voice was calm, but Spencer recognized the I'm-pissed tone.

And then Spencer realized that his shoulders were tense, back muscles knotted up, and he remembered that these kinds of things weren't his problem anymore.

*

Deana had her invitation displayed at the diner. Spencer had to force himself not to rip it off the wall, because it was embarrassing and stupid and _not his problem_.

Spencer liked being in charge, okay, but it made him a little crazy. He knew thatwas never more aware of that fact than he was right then. So he took a deep, cleansing breath and released the metaphorical reins and if there was disaster, so be it. He totally didn't care.

"Spencer, honey, it's cute," she told him, pouring him a cup of coffee. "I'm just so sad I can't go."

It was too close to Christmas, and Deana had family obligations. Spencer's therapist was making him go.

"It's a dog wedding." They were making fun of them on E. It would have possibly been cute if they hadn't invited half of canine-Hollywood to enjoy the festivities, and maybe if Pete hadn't been involved, because Pete had the stigma of, like, instigating insane shit that went horribly wrong. He was a brilliant businessman, but his publicity stunts hurt like hell.

It definitely wasn't Spencer's problem, though. Spencer was going as a casual observer and supportive friend. Dr. Epstein told him it was an important stride for him to take.

His Sidekick buzzed and he tugged it out of his pocket, glancing at the screen. Brendon.

_ella p is a corgi. thats totally wrong, right? _

Spencer typed back: _whats not wrong about this? _

There was a couple minutes' lull, and then: _theyd have ugly babies_

Spencer laughed, he couldn't help it, and Deana flashed him an approving grin and gave him an extra slice of pie.

*

Winter in Virginia was cold. Not the biting, unpredictable cold of Chicago, but cold enough that Spencer still wasn't used to it, and occasionally longed for the dry desert heat of Nevada. A drop in temperature at night was one thing; frost crystallized on the flimsy windowpanes he still hadn't gotten around to replacing was another. There was a constant draft that settled across his bed, and Spencer sometimes woke up with an ache in his neck and a stiff back.

He hadn't gotten around to doing a lot with the cottage, actually. The porch needed to be sanded and refinished, the siding replaced, the entire interior repainted. The kitchen needed to be remodeled, half the carpeting was _shag_, for god's sake, and the only thing that worked properly was the fireplace in the den, because heating the place was a bitch and all the joints simultaneously leaked hot and cold air, and it was the only thing that made the house half-way bearable in the winter.

He had the time to fix everything himself, and the means to pay professionals to do it all right, and yet the cottage just kept aging around him. Dr. Epstein had suggested that probably meant he knew the cottage wasn't a forever deal; that he wasn't going to waste away all his years at the beach, and, yeah, that was a big _no duh_. Five years ago he'd rented the place for a _month_. But there was a huge gap between a month and forever, and Spencer had yet to figure out his timeline.

Having Brendon back - he thought of it like that, _having Brendon back_ \- made him feel almost normal again. And that scared him. More than anything else, that frightened the shit out of him.

*

Once Spencer broke out the stacks of split wood, the piles of old newspapers and the packets of extra long matches, the cats were permanently attached to the hearth. They took up positions on either side of the slate lip and flicked their tails so close to the flames Spencer was amazed they never got scorched.

"Cats are smart," Jon said, and Spencer could hear him clanging around a few pots, cleaning up the kitchen as he talked. "I miss cats. Amber eats my shoes."

"I guess that's worse than finding dead things in them, huh?" Spencer poked a toe out from under his afghan and rubbed it along Rover's stomach. Rover's nose twitched, but otherwise he didn't move from his sprawl in front of the fire.

Jon laughed. "Marginally. So what's up?"

Spencer shrugged. "Nothing. I'm thinking about hiring a handyman."

"No, you're not."

"No, I'm not," Spencer agreed. Arguing with Jon was futile. He learned that a long time ago.

"What's _really_ up?"

"I'm going home for Christmas." There. He'd said it. He was going _home_.

"We're all going home for Christmas," Jon said.

"Except for you."

"Except for me. I get stuck in a car for hours with a baby and a hairy monster, only to end up at a dog wedding." Jon's voice got lower, softer. "You know you guys are family, Spencer," he chided, and the words _you're always my home_ were thankfully left unsaid.

The sentiment was mutual, of course, and involved_always_ involved Brendon, for all of them, and that was really the problem, wasn't it?

Spencer kept quiet, picking at the soft ends of his afghan, and Jon finally heaved a heavy sigh.

He said, "This is about Brendon, right?"

Spencer snorted.

"Okay. Okay, so I'm just going to say this," Jon said. He paused for a second, then went on, "There's some things you can't predict, Spencer, and Brendon's one of them. But you can't tell me you wouldn't survive, okay? You're both different people now, and there isn't anything you can't handle, good or bad."

Spencer rolled his head back on the couch, stared up at the ceiling. Cracks webbed in from the corners, a spider, taking desperate refuge from the frost, dangled from the globe on the end of his ceiling fan. "How do you know?"

"Because you've already _done_ it, Spence," Jon said, as if it was just that simple. "What could possibly be worse than all thatfuck it," frustration, a thread of old pain leaked into his voice, making it harsher, "what could be worse than losing Mae, right?"

And there was the punch. Spencer laughed weakly. "You'll jinx everything," he said, and it was a poor joke, but Jon didn't call him on it.

"You can't keep your life on hold," Jon said evenly. "I'm not saying you should take a huge jump here, okay, but this is _Brendon_."

Brendon. The fucker he apparently still loved, in every way possible. Huge jump. More like a freefall.

*

The wedding was, appropriately, in Las Vegas.

He stayed with his parents, in his old room, and he dressed in a suit, because Ryan had left fifty million voicemails telling him to, and Brendon showed up at his front door just as he was about to leave. Spencer's heart sort of stuttered.

"You're my date, Spencer Smith," Brendon said. He was rocking a top hat. He tipped it back off his forehead and eyed Spencer up. "Okay, wait. You can't wear that to a dog wedding."

Spencer glanced down at himself. "Ryan specifically said to wear a nice suit."

"When did you start listening to Ryan?" Brendon asked. He grabbed Spencer's arm and backed him into the house.

"Brendon," Spencer protested, "we don't have time for this." The ceremony - Jesus Christ, the _ceremony_ \- started in a little under an hour, and the chapel was at least twenty minutes away.

Brendon pulled face. "At least change your shirt."

"What's wrong with my shirt?"

"_Kittens_, Spencer." He poked his chest. "Are you trying to make a statement? You'll offend the whole bridal party."

Spencer arched an eyebrow. He liked his kitten t-shirt. There was a little iron-on butterfly over his heart.

"They'll kick you out, Spencer. They'll make you _leave_, and then I'll be dateless and sad."

Spencer rolled his eyes. "Seriously."

"Seriously." Brendon nodded. "I am so serious."

"Fine," Spencer capitulated, and Brendon gave him a dorky thumbs-up, and for the first time all day Spencer felt like smiling.

*

Jon, Jay, and Amber were waiting for them in the backseat of Brendon's car.

"Where's Cassie?" Spencer asked, settling into the front.

"Watching the rugrat." Jon smiled. "She wants no part of this."

Spencer could understand that. He kind of wanted no part of it, too.

Amber and Jon were on either side of Jay, and Amber was panting heavily, pink tongue lolling, white fur flecked with drool, wearing what looked like a bright red evening gown and a diamond riddled collar.

"Is that appropriate for an afternoon wedding?" Amber _glittered_. Spencer was pretty sure glittering was only allowed after nightfall.

"Blame Ryan." Jon shrugged. Ryan could be blamed for a lot, really.

"Uncle Spence!" Jay waved at him, grin toothy. He had on a little man suit, strapped into his car seat with a juice box.

Jon shot Spencer a sly look, then said, "Hey, Jay, what's the word?"

"Awesome!" Jay wriggled in his seat. "Uncle Jon is _awesome_!"

Brendon laughed. "High-five, buddy," he said, leaning over the center console and stretching out his arm. Jay slapped his palm and said, "Awesome," again.

"You taught him that," Spencer accused Brendon, grinning, and Brendon said, "Oh, no way, no. That was all Jon."

"Right." Spencer highly doubted that.

"Hey," Brendon turned over the engine and started the car, "it's okay. It's true, so. We only speak the truth in the Urie household."

Jon snorted.

"Do not mock me, Jon Walker, for I am an honest man," Brendon said, backing out of the driveway. "An honest man in a dishonest world."

*

Brendon's car was a comfortable, roomy sedan with butter-soft leather seats. Spencer liked it. Spencer didn't actually want to get out of it anytime soon.

Brendon sat next to him and tapped his fingers rhythmically on the steering wheel. After a few minutes, he asked, "Ready?"

"Not really, no."

Brendon bobbed his head, said, "Okay," and then fell silent again.

Jon had already taken Amber and Jay into the picturesque, little white chapel. Spencer and Brendon should really get their asses in there, too, before everything started or Ryan came storming out after them or something, except Spencer was quietly freaking out.

He'd been okay on the plane. He'd been okay bunking in the tiny room in his parents' house, a creepily frozen tribute to his childhood.

He could be okay here, too. He just had to take a few calming breaths.

There was frantic barking and a few howls and some shouting spilling out of the open chapel doors, and Brendon made a little choked noise. Spencer slanted him a glance and caught him pressing his lips together, eyes twinkling.

"See." Brendon paused, cleared his throat. He reached out and took Spencer's hand, prying it off his thigh and threading their fingers together. "This is going to be a disaster, right?"

Spencer nodded. He wasn't sure if he was referring to the dog wedding or to them or to Spencer stepping out into the world again, but totally, yes, disaster. That always seemed to be the way it went.

"Yeah." Brendon laughed. "Yeah, it's gonna be a fucking disaster, I know, but it'll be _fun_."

"Fun," Spencer echoed. He stared at Brendon with his stupid top hat and bright eyes and fucking _gleeful_ expression, like he was letting Spencer in on a hilarious little secret - the absurd beauty of disastrous fun or whatever, and really. With Brendon, that wasn't so surprising.

"Fun, yeah," Brendon went on, "and technically_technically_ Ella P. is Patrick's."

Christ. Spencer'd always had a hard time resisting that manic grin. Honestly, it was too much effort to even try. "Let's go," he said, squeezing Brendon's fingers.

Brendon lit up even more, like he was goddamn incandescent. "Yeah?"

Spencer squirmed his hand out of Brendon's grip and opened the car door. The barking was louder on the sidewalk, mingling with some truly hideous organ music. If they didn't get in there quick, Ryan was going to kill them.

"Yeah," Spencer said. "Yeah, let's go."

*

Epilogue:

It was a really bad idea. It was a ridiculous idea, driving through four states with Brendon and Jay and Spanky and Rover, except it was summer, and the airlines rightfully refused to fly any animals in the heat, and it was kind of the only way they were going to get to Chicago.

"Okay. Okay, don't panic, but I can't find Spanky," Brendon said, worrying his fingers in the hem of his t-shirt. He'd been using that phrase a lot recently: don't panic. He always looked so serious when he said it, too, and Spencer suspected it was more of a don't-blame-me type of seriousness, but just the fact that he cared, really, was sort of more than enough for Spencer.

Jay was already secured in Spencer's old Explorer. The huge moving truck had left hours before, and the SUV was packed and the cats were the last things they needed to settle. Rover was on Jay's lap, narrowed dark eyes glaring at Spencer through the window. Rover had tangled around their legs all day, had been in and out of boxes, but Spanky was a dune cat.

Spencer rubbed damp palms on his jeans. "I'll get him," he said, and toed off his sneakers.

The day was ominously stormy, dark clouds threatening rain. He walked past the sagging, peeling porch of the now-empty cottage and over the sandy grass that lined the edge of the property before it became beach, and as he crested the first dune, the high sea breeze was like a cool slap in the face. He ducked his head slightly. The beach was short enough and the wind strong enough that he felt tiny pings of spray on his bare arms, the tops of his cheeks.

Spanky was staring at him from in between the tall, dry grass. He was crouching, twin white paws tucked under his chest. His ears twitched irritably as the reeds fanned sideways in the wind.

Strangely, he didn't protest when Spencer scooped him up, curling him over his chest, front legs straight against Spencer's arm. He held his head high, blue eyes eerily focused on the cottage on the other side of the dunes. It was weathered gray, and looked even older, somehow, without any life left inside.

"You'll have fun in Chicago," Spencer murmured, slowly starting back, and it was almost like he was trying to convince himself, because Spanky was a damn _cat_, except he already knew he'd have fun in Chicago. He was moving in with Ryan for a while, and it was going to be _good_ and exactly what he needed and not just because Deana had told him so. "You'll get to torture Ryan's dogs, and it'll be fun."

Brendon waved from the mouth of the path. "All set?" he asked when Spencer drew closer, the breeze nearly bowling him over, shirt plastered against his chest.

Spencer grinned. He nodded, and the road trip was a fucking _horrible_ idea, and he was pretty sure they'd all want to kill each other, cats included, by the end of it, but he was ready. Oh, yeah, he totally was.


End file.
